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Last week we had a monstrous storm in my neighborhood. The tornado sirens even went off. Of course, I didn’t leave my perch on the third floor, because I’ve been through hundreds of tornadoes and never sustained any personal injury. (Please see hubris).
After the threat of tornadoes had passed, the storm still raged. At about 10:30 p.m. there was a blinding flash of white, a loud BAM! and my building’s fire alarm went off.
It’s been almost two years since my second knee replacement but stairs are still not my friend. I slowly made my way to the main floor of my condo building, gripping the handrail tightly.
When I got there, I found a few other residents standing around the lobby. They were trying to talk about the lightning strike over the deafening wail of the fire alarm.
I stepped outside and called 911. I told them there was no sign of an actual fire, but the lobby fire board was lit up with half a dozen flashing red lights. It only took a few minutes for four fire trucks to arrive, with sirens screaming.
The firefighters poured into the building and split up to investigate every corner of the five stories. Eventually, they deactivated the alarm, but it still went off a few times, just for a second.
Each time it did, I jumped and swore, “Jesus Christ!”. The other old ladies standing around thought that was hilarious. Sure, it’s all fun and games until you realize you left your nitro upstairs in your apartment!
After determining that the lightning strike hadn’t actually caused a fire, the firefighters gave us permission to return to our homes. Unfortunately, we were all faced with hiking back up the stairs, as the elevator was decommissioned when the alarm went off. And if you think going down the stairs is difficult, you don’t want to watch me try to go up the stairs!
A nice, young (everyone looks young to me these days) fireman unlocked the emergency panel and took us old ladies to the upper floors on the elevator. The men walked back to their apartments, because even in their 50’s, 60’s and 70’s, men will be macho.
The next day, I was to meet my BFF “G” in Z-town. I hiked down the stairs, past the lobby, to the underground garage. I missed the last step in the dim light and clumsily ran ahead to try to keep from falling. Then I smashed into the wall. Clumsily.
Cheeses! What was I thinking when I bought a third floor condo? I was thinking that if the lift was out of service, I’d stay home. That’s what I was thinking!
Thank Goddess the elevator had been reset by the time I got home from playing with “G”. Whew.
There was an alarming note on the community bulletin board, though. It said the fire alarm would take about two weeks to repair, so the condo board needed volunteers to walk the five levels every 15 minutes to patrol for possible fires. Each shift would last three hours.
Excuse me while I do a little mathing: 1×15/60xsquare root of 3+X/Ycarry the 1+a miracle here x5=60! 60 gourds! Even though I had just recently worked up to four gourds!
With great trepidation, I signed up for a fire patrol shift, or as I like to call it, “The Walk of Flame”.
I was a little, okay a whole lotta sore after 60 gourds.The next day I was a little stiff. The following day, I could only move very slowly, and with a great deal of moaning.
Easy peasy, lemon squeeze. Can’t wait to do it again.
Stay tuned…
